


In Another Life

by Nunonabun



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nunonabun/pseuds/Nunonabun
Summary: This started as a Coffee Shop AU for Shelagh & Patrick, but now it's a modern AU where their canon roles are reversed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A modern day coffee shop AU with a bit of a twist with respect to the Turnadette canon.

Patrick Turner practically inhaled the last of his coffee, looking sorrowfully through the small hole in the cap to check that that really was the last of it.

He sighed and queued up once again, needing more liquid energy to spur him home after his marathon third shift on the maternity ward.

“Scottish breakfast, please,” asked the petite blondish woman in front of him. Though he was new to Nonnatus Hospital, he recognized the voice. He’d worked with it for the past dozen hours, as well as the first delivery he’d participated in since his days as a junior doctor. Nurse Parker’s fortitude and calm in dealing not only with labouring mothers and their anxious partners and family, but also his initial nerves and then this complicated delivery had been his rock. He wouldn’t have recognized her from behind had she not spoken, used as he was to seeing her in a medical cap and gown.

He ordered quickly and went to stand with her by the pickup counter.

“Looks like my greenness isn’t the cause of my inability to head home without a boost.” He attempted humour, finding himself strangely nervous to approach her outside of work.  

Her paradoxically striking and soft eyes met his, recognition clicking in them as they swept his face. She smiled, lifting her tea ruefully in acknowledgement. “No, I’m afraid I always need a wee something.”

Patrick gathered his own beverage. “Still better than me, it’s my second.”

“Well earned,” Nurse Parker assured him. “You were really quite exceptional today. It’s no small feat to remain calm and clear-headed on such a case, especially given that you’ve only just started here.”

“Thank you. It means a great deal to hear that from you. I was very worried about switching specialties, truth be told.” He didn’t know why he’d blurted that. Normally he was more reserved with his feelings, and she was - in practice if not in title - his superior.

“Oh yes, you were in A&E weren’t you?” She asked.

He shifted, uncomfortable with where questions about his past specialty might lead. Damn him for raising it. “For a time, yes, but I’ve always been interested in obstetrics and gynaecology. It’s such an under-researched and underserved field, especially in an area like this.”

An answering spark lit in her own eyes. “It certainly is, and I look forward to working with you in it.” She paused before continuing, “it’s nice to have a doctor who clearly cares so much. Not all do.”

A silence fell between them, Patrick somehow unable to find his words and incapable of tearing his gaze from hers.

Abruptly she turned away, shattering the moment. “I should go.”  

“No, please. Stay, take tea with me.” He invited quickly. Another outburst, and definitely an unprofessional one. What had gotten into him? His exhaustion must be affecting his judgement.

She shot him an apologetic look, nodding to the clock on the wall behind the counter. “I’m expected at home. My son, Timothy. He’s with the babysitter but I promised I’d try my best to be home for a late supper.”

Patrick’s eyes darted to the ring on her left hand and back to her face, remembering the snatches of conversation he’d overheard mentioning a dead husband.

“Of course, I’m sorry for keeping you.” He felt his face heat and hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

Thankfully, she seemed not to notice, and the warmth in her reply was genuine. “You weren’t. It was nice to speak to you Dr. Turner.”

With a swish of her dark blue coat and the gentle tinkle of the café bell, she was off into the blustery February evening.

For the rest of the week - try as he might to turn his mind to other things - each time he closed his eyes, her bright blue eyes held his once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always lovely to hear your thoughts, so drop me a note below!


	2. Chapter 2

For the past several hours, the sharp breaths and drawn-out groans of the labouring mother had punctuated time for those in the room more than the clock on the wall.

“We’re almost getting to the sharp end now Gemma, so I need you to keep being strong for me.” Nurse Parker urged, rising from her place between Mrs. Lam’s legs with a muffled groan of her own.

Dr. Turner caught her eye and grinned, already attaching the BP cuff to their patient’s arm. She’d called him in to prescribe an antihypertensive after Mrs. Lam had shown up, early in her labour but with a growing headache and - upon assessment - a high BP. Due to the risk associated with the birth, he’d remained, working on his charts when his help wasn’t required, but proving himself equal to assisting with anything she needed, big or small. They worked well together, she noted as he smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Lam’s wife. He was respectful, kind, and intelligent, and though they’d only worked a few cases together so far, they already cooperated with an easy synchronicity.    

Nurse Parker blocked out the sounds cluttering the room with practiced ease as she checked the baby’s heart rate. Straightening once more, she caught sight of her son in the doorway, his dark blue school cap sitting askew atop his rumpled hair, and his shirt half untucked. Once again, Dr. Turner was right with her.

“Hello, have you come to assist us then?” He asked good-naturedly.

Tim smiled shyly, at odds with his cheeky reply. “I bet I could, I practically live here now.”

Shelagh’s eyes flicked up to the clock, noting that it was indeed well past the time that school let out. A stab of guilt lanced through her as she realised she’d not been keeping track. Ever since the local Boys & Girls Club had moved out of the district, she’d been hard pressed to care for Tim in that awkward time after school but before evening. Julienne - the Maternity Ward Administrator - had been graciously accommodating with her schedule during Martin’s illness and since she’d returned following his death, but Nurse Parker was still at the mercy of nature’s timeline, so Shelagh’s family schedule remained a struggle. At least Tim’s school was close enough for him to walk, and the team here was close-knit and loved having him around.

“Timothy, dear, would you wait in the nurses’ area?” She requested, not leaving her patient’s side. “You know the drill.”    

“I know I should go sit there when you’re with a patient.” Tim bristled. “I just scraped my elbow playing with my mates after school, and sometimes things are slow and you have time.”

His eyes shone with disappointment as he explained himself, and Shelagh wished she could get her hands on one of those Time Turners from Tim’s Harry Potter books. It seemed the only way she’d ever be able to be all the places she was needed.

“I would be happy to see to it, if that’s alright with both of you.” Dr. Turner interjected, keen to help. He grinned at Timothy. “Your mum’s more useful here anyways, and we’ll be right outside when things pick up.”

“Will you be alright with Dr. Turner while I see to my patient?” Shelagh asked, hoping her son would take to the doctor as much as she had.

He nodded eagerly, and Shelagh shot Dr. Turner a grateful glance.

“I’m sorry for the interruption.” Nurse Parker apologized to Mrs. Lam and Heeley after the boys were out of earshot and another contraction had eased.  

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, we were expecting a child anyways!” Mrs. Heeley laughed. Her wife groaned, though whether it was due to the joke or the next contraction, no-one could say.

—

“Let’s get you sat down and we’ll have that fixed up in a jiffy.” Patrick said brightly, gesturing towards a comfortable, high-backed office chair. He nabbed an alcohol wipe from the adjoining supply room and took a seat facing Timothy.

His eyes - brown, Patrick had noticed earlier, not his mother’s blue - were downcast, suddenly shy.

“Let’s see that scrape then.” He said gently, holding out a hand for Tim’s elbow.

The graze was broad and shallow, but it had a fair bit of grit in it. “This is going to sting quite a bit, so you can squeeze my hand if you’d like.”

Tim frowned defiantly. “I’m ten years old. I don’t need to hold someone’s hand.”

Patrick laughed. “Well I’m 31, and I might need a hand to hold if someone were about to clean grit out of my elbow with rubbing alcohol!”

Tim’s annoyance vanished rapidly, that sweet smile from earlier returning to light up his eyes. “No you wouldn’t.”

Patrick gingerly took his arm and began dabbing at the wound, Tim hissing at the sensation. “I certainly would. Everyone needs a bit of comfort when they’re in pain.”

Tim didn’t reply for a time, his body tense as Patrick methodically cleaned the graze.

“My granny said that after my daddy died,” he commented in a small voice.    

Patrick’s soft hazel eyes caught Tim’s. He didn’t say anything, merely giving the elbow below the injury a squeeze and allowing Timothy to see the sympathy - though not pity - in his eyes.  

He broke the contact to give Tim a moment and get a gauze pad and medical tape, grateful for his sake that all of the nurses were currently occupied.

To Patrick’s surprise, Tim looked openly curious when he returned. “How did you know not give me that look grown-ups always give me when I talk about Daddy?”

 _Ah, of course._  “My father died when I was about your age too.”

Tim seemed hopeful now, glad to talk with someone standing on the the same ground as him for once. “How did he die? If it’s okay for me to ask.”

Patrick paused for a moment. He didn’t like to talk about it, but he recognized the boy’s need. It had been so frustrating when his own father had died and people refused to answer his frank questions, their only words to him apologies or the unsatisfactory platitude that sometimes bad things happened to good people.

“He was killed in a car crash,” he answered bluntly. “The roads were slippery. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Tim nodded, acknowledging and understanding. “Is that why you’re a doctor?”

“It is.” Patrick confirmed, his mind replaying that old memory of sitting in the hard hospital chairs beside his mum, the sharp smell of antiseptic and blood irritating his nose as the doctor broke the news that in spite of their best efforts, his father was gone. “I was working in the A&E for a while before I realised I wanted to help bring new life into the world.”  _As opposed to fixing broken bodies and sobering people up, never being able to heal what’s broken underneath_ , he added mentally.

As if in reply to his statement, the cries from Mrs. Lam’s room increased in pitch and volume.

“Like that one?” Timothy asked, a playful smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Exactly like that one.” Patrick squeezed his shoulder, rising to return to his patient. “While your mother and I get mucky dealing with the miracle of life, help yourself to some biscuits. I’ve got a little stash in that bottom drawer over there.” He indicated the lowest drawer under the computer with a wink, rushing off and leaving a considerably happier lad than he’d arrived with.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shamefully posts a third chapter months later* It’s fairly short, but I’m going to try to be more reliable with this going forward (if people still like it) and do at least a chapter a week.

He was already there when Shelagh came in the next morning, though a glance at the clock confirmed that she was 10 minutes early. The sleeves of his lab coat and shirt were rolled up and his hair looked disheveled. She almost went to straighten it out but managed to stop herself in time - one of those automatic habits of a parent, she thought ruefully.

“Good morning Dr. Turner.”

He snapped up from his notes, hazel eyes warm in spite of the harsh hospital lighting and the early hour.

“Morning! How are you? And Tim? I’m sorry about the biscuits, I didn’t realise there were still so many in the pack.”

Timothy had absolutely ravaged the biscuit pack he’d been gifted and had consequently almost made himself ill spinning his sugar high out on the wheely chairs. Patrick had felt quite guilty about it, she’d trusted him with her child and he almost made the boy sick. So much for his friends’ teasing assertions that he was the “dad friend.”

Yet Shelagh didn’t look concerned. In fact, she was smiling as she set down her bag and rooted through it. 

“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself. He should have known not to take advantage of your offer by hoovering up the whole pack. It was very kind of you to mind him, and you really were wonderful with him.”

She paused after she pulled out a folded sheet of paper, seeming to consider her next action, then gently handed it to him. “He thinks quite highly of you.”

A warmth filled Patrick’s chest as he unfolded it to reveal a large drawing of a young boy in his school uniform holding hands with a tall, dark-haired man in a white coat. Patrick took a second to dislodge the frog from his throat before replying.

“It was no trouble. He’s a sweet boy.”

For some reason, the thought of putting it up by his desk seemed wrong, too public a location for such a gift. “Would you tell him I’ll put it up on my fridge?”

The almost paternal suggestion sent a rush of gratitude and sorrow through Shelagh. When Martin was alive, they used to stick Tim’s drawings up on the fridge, proud as could be of his alarmingly-hued and shaped portraits. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put one up, or for that matter when Tim had last given her one to put up.

She wanted to agree and move on to a subject further from the tender ground of parenthood and loss, but he’d opened himself up to Timothy and deserved recognition of that.

“It helped him a great deal, you sharing your own loss with him. The anniversary of his father’s death was just a little while ago and it was hard on him.”

Patrick nodded slowly, considering his words. “I know it just sounds like a platitude, but children really are more resilient than you’d think. Tim still has that sorrow, of course, but he’s not closing himself off. I’d say you’re doing really well.”

Shelagh offered him a small smile, trying to keep her professional composure. Mercifully, yet also somewhat disappointingly, Trixie Franklin saved her.

“Hello you two! Up for a morning tea? Cynthia’s made cranberry scones.”

Shelagh almost laughed at how Patrick perked up at the suggestion, looking for all the world like a terrier that had spotted a squirrel. Home baking was certainly a nice perk of working in the Maternity Ward, whose staff cared for each other more like a family than colleagues. Trixie herself had taken care of Tim a few times at her own suggestion when Shelagh was having an especially busy or difficult week.

“That sounds lovely, thank you Trixie.”

Following Trixie out of the room, and then throughout the rest of the day, Shelagh realised that she was distinctly aware of Patrick’s presence when he was near her.

Over the next week she caught herself noticing things about him - how part of his fringe fell over his eyes when he was bent over his charts, the habit he had of rubbing his lips with the side of a crooked finger when he was thinking, how cozy he seemed in his unfortunate jumpers. It worried her, the noticing. She didn’t have time to notice a man at the moment, let alone a colleague, and one 17 years her junior to boot. She resolved to just snap herself out of it whenever she noticed herself doing it. It was only because he’d been - and continued to be - so kind with Tim, and it had been so long since she’d been able to discuss her deeper feelings and concerns with someone. Give it another week or so and her brain would catch up and set her straight again, she was sure of it.

~*~

Patrick strolled along the dark waters of the Thames with his evening fish & chips. He knew he ought to make more of an effort to cook for himself, especially since he had preached healthy eating to many a patient, but he couldn’t quite help himself this indulgence. As he walked, his thoughts painted Shelagh out of the lamplight and shadows by his side. Without making a conscious choice to do so, he found himself imagining discussions with her when they were apart. Sometimes it was lighthearted - did she and Tim watch the last World Cup match? Had she had time to catch up on that novel he’d seen her pick up at the nurses’ nation one morning? Other times they would wander into more difficult topics, such as their pasts, or their divergent feelings on religion (he’d caught a glimpse of the small silver cross she wore around her neck). He imagined the way her clear eyes would allow him a glimpse into her feelings before she found the words to explain them, and how her hands would sculpt them out of the air in front of her as she talked.

He felt that no matter what he asked her, she would tell him. He would happily tell her. There was an ease between them, in spite of how little they’d actually talked about non-work related topics. But she was a colleague, and personal outings were discouraged if there was a chance they would become romantic, which, appropriately, was strictly forbidden. His mind shied away from that word, « romantic, » not daring to ask himself whether that was truly the nature of his feelings towards her. He wasn’t much one for dating, hating the small-talk and what he saw as the endless cycle of awkward dates with women he wasn’t really that interested in before the unemotional decision that perhaps they weren’t so well suited. There were more useful ways to spend his time, he felt.

Patrick fed the last of his soggy fries - damn that faulty vinegar bottle spout - to a seagull who’d determinedly followed him for the last 15 minutes.  He was overthinking things, as usual, his mind off and running around obstacles without stopping to consider whether this was even his course. It was just their inability to be romantically involved that had him thinking this way. He was a friend to her and her son and that was simply that.


	4. Chapter 4

The steam rising off his morning tea gently roused Patrick to a state of semi-consciousness. He’d never been the best with mornings, and recently he’d not been doing so well with nights either. He ought to be focussing on his pre-clinic paperwork, but it was the mention of a familiar name that pulled him back into the maternity ward’s kitchenette.

“A year ago I would have thought it unusual for Shelagh to be running late,” Julienne commented, almost to herself, concern furrowing her brow as she looked up at the clock.

“She’s been looking so tired, and she seems to be taking on even more than she was before her husband died.” Cynthia noted, not without sympathy.

“She _is_ looking more disheveled these days,” Trixie agreed, “her coat’s missing a button, and her poor little boy’s not much better.”

“I think our colleague deserves more respect than to be the subject of idle morning gossip.” The sharpness of Patrick’s tone surprised him as much as the others. Quickly returning his focus to his papers, he hoped they didn’t read anything into his comments. They were just worrying about a friend, he knew that. He didn’t know what had gotten into him.

The following day at lunch, checking that Shelagh was safely occupied with other tasks, Patrick hastily bundled her coat into his little office. Locking the door for good measure, he pulled out the thread and pack of needles he’d bought the previous evening, snipped the replacement button off the coat’s tag, and set to his task. As he found his rhythm with the help of a Youtube tutorial, he wondered how it was he’d never learned to sew properly before now. During his university and med school years, though he’d worked hard to perfect his sutures, the few slap-dash repairs he’d performed on his own clothes generally unravelled by the second wash. Giving the button an experimental tug, he was satisfied that that would not be the case with this. As soon as the kitchenette was free, he slipped it back onto its hook, praying that nobody had noticed its momentary absence. It was only a small help to a friend with so much on her plate, but a button here, perhaps a bit of paperwork there and her days would maybe run a bit smoother. He found the thought disquietingly comforting.

~*~

“Mum. Mum. Mum.” With each revolution of the chair he’d wheeled in from reception, Tim kept up his steady chant.

“Timothy, you do realize that distracting me from my work will only extend the time it takes me to complete this email and therefore how long it will be before you get supper.” Shelagh didn’t look up from her laptop as she replied.

She’d spent most of her day battling the hospital bureaucracy about their resistance to covering home visits. A fair percentage of their patients came from countries where you didn’t go to a hospital to give birth, and would be far more comfortable at home. What was more, it had been shown in many studies that women who came to a hospital to give birth were at higher risk of contracting illnesses endemic to hospitals, such as  _ C. difficile _ . Granted, that was why their ward was in a separate building to the side of the hospital…

As she contemplated how best to frame her arguments, she toyed absentmindedly with the lowest button on her coat, the one that had recently reappeared. She worried distractedly that her son may have started to repair her clothes instead of vice versa - some mother she was! She sorted the thought away for later and returned to the subject at hand. Perhaps she should take Dr. Turner up on his offer to help her with her case for home visits. He shared her passion on the subject, and perhaps the hospital administrators would be more open to a proposition coming from a doctor as opposed to a nurse.

As though he could hear her thoughts, the man himself waltzed back into the kitchenette to improve her day, presumably having just completed his own paperwork.

“Late night, Parkers?” He asked. “How about I run out and get us all some fish and chips? There’s a nice chippy not far from here that does a very tasty supper.”

Timothy paused in his spinning. “Mum says the fish and chips in London are sub- _stan_ -tially inferior to the ones in Aberdeen. And besides, they’re unhealthy.” 

Shelagh blushed as though she’d personally disparaged Patrick’s suggestion. 

“They do also serve mushy peas, to maintain one’s balanced diet,” Patrick joked.

Two pairs of hopeful eyes turned to Shelagh.

“Thank you for your offer, I do sometimes indulge, but really I’m almost finished here and I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

Patrick visibly perked up as she hedged her rejection. “It wouldn’t put me out at all. If you’re amenable to having a less-than-healthy evening I think it would be tickety-boo to have some company for supper. Not to put any pressure on you, of course, if you’d prefer to head home.”

Timothy looked back and forth between the two adults, who were now staring at one another as though he wasn’t right there. “If you two are done doing that grown-up thing of pretending you don’t want to do something when you actually do, can we go now? I’m quite hungry.” 

Shelagh tore her eyes away, scrambling to retrieve her words. “Assuring you’re not imposing on someone’s time or plans is simply being polite, Timothy, and I haven’t raised you to dismiss that as superfluous.”

Timothy rolled his eyes, letting them linger on his mother for maximal effect as he resumed his spinning. “Dr. Patrick said he doesn’t have plans so  _ please _ mother let’s go out for fish and chips.”

Patrick tried to hide his amusement as Shelagh pursed her lips, evidently deciding her son’s etiquette lesson could be postponed. Looking to Patrick to confirm, she concluded the matter. “Alright, get yourself ready then Tim.” 

Unthinkingly helping Shelagh with her coat, Patrick nervously wondered if this counted as a date.

~*~

They sat side by side in comfortable silence on the riverside bench, tucking into their tasty Friday night indulgence as Timothy - having practically inhaled his on the walk over - wove between the promenade’s trees, practicing football with a rock.

“Not as fresh as Aberdeen’s, I’m sure, but it does fill a hole.” Patrick commented.

The lamplight caught in Shelagh’s dimples as she smiled. “Up until I was a few years older than Timothy, my family would often drive over to Aberdeen on weekends in the summer - what summer we had, that is - and spend the day with my cousins on the beach, swimming and getting fish and chips from the stands. I think it will always be linked to summers on the North Sea for me. I sometimes wish Timothy could have had that too. Not,” she added hastily, “that this isn’t lovely.”

Patrick shook his head, denying any offense. “Why did you move down South, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He instantly regretted his question as the light slipped from Shelagh’s face. “Martin’s parents lived here - his mother still does - and we wanted to be close to them when the baby came. My father was still alive, but he was very much a man of his time. My nursing hours were bound to be hectic no matter where I was, as was Martin’s job on the railroad. We couldn’t afford to pay for childcare, so we picked ourselves up and set down here.”

“I’m sorry, it sounds as though you’ve had your share of difficult times.” He longed to reach out and hold her gloved hand in comfort, but feared that would cross one of their unspoken lines.

“Many have had worse.” Shelagh sighed, pulling herself out of her melancholy. “And yourself? I may not be from England but I’m quite certain that’s not a London accent I hear.”

He smiled as he disposed of their oily supper boxes and offered her a hand up. “You got me, I’m a Liverpudlian. I’m a fairly common sort, made a beeline to the Big Smoke for school and work and haven’t quite mustered up the desire to make my way back out.” 

Shelagh didn’t relinquish his hand immediately as they started to amble up the river, Patrick noted with an accompanying flutter of the butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach for the past several  weeks.

“Your mum’s still up there?” Shelagh asked. 

Patrick nodded. “And my stepfather. He’s not unhappy to have a good few miles between us.”

He scrambled to qualify his statement, not wanting Shelagh to think him a bitter sort, or to think that step-parenting in general was a concept he looked down on. “Bad luck on my part, I’ve had loads of friends with divorced parents who got on grand with their step-parents.” _Patrick, you are sounding like such a twit._ How was it that he felt so at ease sharing things with her he generally kept to himself, yet also turned into a tongue-tied fool in her presence?

“I’m sure you’d be wonderful.” Shelagh assured him, realizing the implications of what she’d said only after she looked over and noticed that Patrick was no longer beside her, apparently rooted to the spot by her words. 

“I believe that, when I’m with you.” His words were soft, easy to allow the breeze to blow them away. She did. 

“Pardon?” She’d heard him, he knew she did. She was giving him an out.

He forced a smile to his lips and shook his head. “Nothing, I was… nothing.”

The air between them cooled, the damage done. They walked on in silence.

Worries crept out of the shadows of Shelagh’s mind as they caught up to Timothy. She hadn’t been consciously thinking of Patrick as a surrogate father to Tim, but it was now clear to her that she had, at very least, started to toy with that idea these past weeks. Was she pressuring him into a role he didn’t want? Did _he_ feel she was thinking of him in that way? Or, worse, that she only thought of him as a crutch to lean on to support her in raising Timothy? A poor replacement for a real father? How could she even be thinking such a thing when Martin had barely been gone more than a year? Guilt twisted in her breast and she stubbornly clamped down on her spiralling thoughts. Keeping her face impassive, she tidied them into a mental box that she could re-open and examine later that night, when she was alone and one of the subjects of her concerns wasn’t studying her face like it was a medical text out of the corner of his eye.

A soft patter of rain provided a welcome end to the evening, Patrick staring up at the heavens in resignation as Shelagh called Timothy back to them and produced a surprisingly substantial umbrella from her bag.

“Can we go home with Patrick?” Timothy’s eyes were still full of bright energy, in spite of the clouds that had descended upon them.

“Dr. Turner,” his mother corrected him primly, “and no we cannot. We’ve imposed on him enough, and it’s close to bedtime for you.”

Timothy groaned and they made their goodbyes. 

As the boy ran ahead, Patrick gently caught Shelagh’s elbow, stopping her from following her son just yet.

“I’m sorry if I made things uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to imply…” 

Shelagh’s politeness chilled him more than the now-steady autumn rain. “Of course not, Dr. Turner. I would never assume you did.”

Those words echoed in his mind as he squeezed himself onto a boisterous Tube car that smelled of wet dog and beer. Certainly, she was saying it out of politeness, but her words had the firm ring of truth as well. Did she really not believe he might have feelings for her, even though his series of friendly blunders would surely have made anyone else suspect he did? He felt oddly frustrated by that. And why couldn’t he have romantic intentions towards her? She was an attractive, smart, kind woman and they had clicked right from them beginning, she must have noticed that too. Did she think of him as a child then? No, that was a petulant response. Perhaps she was uncomfortable because of societal perception of their age difference. That seemed likely. Well that was certainly a load of rubbish! If an older man and a younger woman could step out without anyone batting an eye, then why-

_It’s because you’re her colleague, you_ **_absolute_ ** _ numpty. _ The logical part of his brain broke through his rising storm of emotions, sternly stamping them down.

He crawled into bed that night more tired than he could remember being in a long time. He felt as tense as when he’d written his medical exams, ready to snap at the slightest touch, frustrated by his own faults and limitations. He was admittedly poor at sorting out his emotions much of the time, but it had never before seemed as perilous, nor as important as now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild chapter has appeared! Just kidding, this is Shelagh and Patrick we're talking about after all.   
> But it has been a while, so if you're still reading this, you're a gem. If you've just picked it up that's lovely too, thanks for reading!

“What are you all doing here?” A voice boomed as they stepped past the quiet man who’d opened the door. “We told yous we don’t want your artificial interventions, we’re having a natural childbirth here, like our grandmothers and all their mothers before them.” **  
**

Nurse Parker and Dr. Turner exchanged a look. This birth would be every bit as difficult as they had suspected. Nurse Miller had convinced Maeve Carter to attend the antenatal clinic, but she and her sister Meg Smith become so distressed by the brief visit that they’d left in an explosion of informational pamphlets, the air ringing with Meg’s scathing dismissal of their apparently ill-researched medical care.

“Well, as your grandmothers up to antiquity certainly had midwives present, I’m quite sure you won’t object to us seeing your sister safely through birth.” Nurse Franklin replied brusquely. Nurse Parker locked eyes with the doctor and nodded almost imperceptibly towards Mr. Carter, indicating that it was perhaps best he wait in the kitchen until he was needed, if indeed he was needed. The doctor readily accepted her silent suggestion.

More directions were issued as the pair of midwives entered the stifling bedroom.

“You leave your drugs out there, you hear? We’ll not be having her body polluted with chemicals!” Meg clutched her sister’s hand firmly, her eyes wide, and Nurse Parker felt a stab of sympathy. The poor woman was clearly terrified, and her sister likely was too.

“We’re not going to give Maeve anything she doesn’t need and accept. We’re here to work with you, not against you.” Nurse Parker’s smooth, calm voice seemed to breathe some air back into the tense bedroom.   

Nurse Franklin, also sensing the need for a gentle approach, softened her tone as she knelt to examine Maeve. 

“Deep breaths sweetie, this little one seems eager to be on its way!”

And sure enough, barely ten minutes later, a squalling, squish-faced new being made its way into the world.

As Nurse Franklin tended to the newborn, Nurse Parker shifted to the business end of the bed to handle the afterbirth. Her heart skipped a beat as a tentative palpation of the lower abdomen revealed that their work was not as close to completion as they’d assumed. Regular prenatal ultrasounds made such discoveries uncommon, and she disliked being caught unprepared.  

“It looks as though you two aren’t the only twins in the room!“ She announced, keeping her tone bright for the nervous sisters.

Maeve laughed, squeezing her sister’s hand. “What d’you think about that then?”

The jovial nature quickly wore off as Nurse Parker carried out a more thorough examination.

“Baby’s being a wee bit uncooperative, Maeve. As she’s lying sideways, I’m just going to turn her so she’s lined up nicely like her sister.”

Exerting all the force her small frame allowed, Nurse Parker managed to shift the baby slightly within its confines, eliciting a deep groan of pain from Maeve.

She lifted her eyes to the red-faced mother. “Once more now Maeve.”

No sooner had the addressed sister nodded her assent than the other expressed a rather more physical dissent.

The slam of the door coincided perfectly with the crack of her head against the floor.

Patrick was kneeling beside Shelagh, but she was up before his fear had the time to bloom into panic.

“I’m alright, we just need to turn baby before the contractions force it further down.” The ringing in one of her ears put the lie to her assertion, but Nurse Parker would deal with that later.   

Returning to her task, she barely had time to notice that Patrick had placed himself between her and Meg and was talking to the latter in a low, tense voice. 

The newest little one slid into life almost as quickly as her sister, once she was properly positioned.

Automatically switching places with Nurse Franklin, Nurse Parker coaxed mouvement into the tiny lungs, the whole room learning to breathe anew as its newest occupant took her first distressed breaths.

~*~

Nurse Franklin bid them a hasty goodbye as soon as the trio finished their tasks, gleefully proclaiming that a nice glass of wine and a bubble bath were needed to recover from that ordeal.

“You likely need a lie-down in a dark room,” Patrick commented, leaning against the side of his car. “I’d be surprised if you don’t have a concussion.”

Shelagh joined him, enjoying this moment in the calm after the storm. “It does throb a bit, but my brother used to say I’ve a head as hard as an iron pot, so I may yet be fine.”

Patrick laughed. “While I’m sure your brother’s conclusion comes from reliable testing, would you let me have a look?”

She turned to him, acquiescing.

He hesitated, then placed a hand on her jaw, his touch feather-light.

His eyes were lighter than she’d realized, an uneven in colouring, asymmetrically flecked.

“Your gaze isn’t steady,” he noted quietly. “Are you having any trouble focussing?”

In fact, she also felt slightly unsteady. Maybe now that the adrenaline of the birth was wearing off, she was feeling the full effects of the blow.

“Perhaps, a bit.”

His expression was grave. “Any tingling? Fogginess?”  

She caught herself before admitting that the tingling wasn’t where you would expect from a blow to the head.

“It’s nothing severe,” she preempted his diagnosis and advice, “It will pass quickly if I avoid stimulation.”

Patrick withdrew his hand, breaking the searching gaze.

“Absolutely. Just a passing affliction, if managed well.”

He followed her gaze to her bicycle, locked to a post on the other side of the street.

“I’ll drive you.” It was both a question and an answer.  

She thought fleetingly about rebuffing him. She needed the air, the space. It wasn’t much of a ride home, but it would be along older roads, still cobblestoned, and busy to boot.

“You should avoid noise and jolts to the brain, take it easy. I’ll drive you.” He repeated.

Neither spoke after she accepted his drive home. She could sense he wanted to, could feel his eyes breaking from the road to search for hers, forgetting his own advice from just moments ago. She closed her eyes to remind him, silence was the best medicine in such a case.   

**Author's Note:**

> It's always wonderful to hear from folks who've read this, so if you have a moment to leave a comment below, that would be marvelous.


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